May. 9th, 2010

hallelujahpilot: (bow my head)
Trudy considered herself monogamous. Just, serially monogamous. God only knew how much being posted to base to warzone to another tour and ‘oh, honey, I’ll have mid-deployment break in seven months’ had conditioned her to regard anything lasting more than several months as being an odd beast indeed. The fact that her longest relationship had lasted for over three years only because she’d been on a fifteen-month tour of Angola and hadn’t wanted to dump Portia Chen while on another continent was not a fact that had escaped Trudy’s notice.

Her affair with Frieda Watson had lasted two and a half years. It’d been quiet and sweet, and along with genuinely loving her, Trudy knew that the relationship had helped kept her as sane as she was. But…

But.

There was a difference between quiet and dying, quiet and dead, and in the last few months, their relationship had certainly been struggling. But quietly, in a way where the silence between them said far more than their voices did. Instead of comfort, there was absence, and strain, and a sense of duty about it all. And to be honest, Trudy wondered how much of this was true, and how much was retrograded bullshit to justify to herself the fact that she’d let all her freaking buttons be switched by an interesting man in a bar.

(she’d like to think that it was not too much retrograded bullshit, but the question remained.)

And damn, but Carl Benton was interesting. She had made it a personal rule not to date military, to try and stop herself from being entirely consumed by that macho, techo-and-metal driven world. But Carl was quietly military, with a love of nature’s beauty and a wild grin that matched hers, and she’d never found that combination before. He’d get things, like why when she was a passenger in transport, she’d sit or stand with one leg in front of the other, so if a bomb went off or a missile came in, she might only lose one leg, not both. He’d get why when people were killed, you just went back to work (until you couldn’t), and that it didn’t mean that you didn’t care, just that you had a damn job to do, and maybe you didn’t really want to talk about it (which had been a source of arguments, ever since Ing Schmidt and Walker and the others had been killed). He’d get things, without – and this was the important part - military being all there was. Still, for him to flip all of her buttons like he had, she had to have let him. She had to have let herself wonder, let herself flirt back, let herself want what he had to offer and what he had offered. It had to have been a conscious choice on her part, and she knew it.

Trudy was monogamous, but she was used to relationships being short and over. She loved, had loved Frieda, and maybe, maybe, maybe they could work at it, get over this. Even for the remaining six months…No, that wouldn’t work. What would honestly be the point, given Frieda was leaving, and Trudy was still here for another three years?

But the main thing was that Trudy was bored. This was not a nice thing to admit to oneself – far easier to blame the other person, and say it was them pulling away, their work-load, their failure to be interesting – but it was true, and she tried to be honest. She didn’t want to work at her relationship because she was bored. Her attraction to Carl was not a cause of anything, just a symptom and a by-product. A by-product she wanted to pursue, because he was interesting, and because she was bored.

Frieda Watson deserved better than that. Not to mention that drawing things out with Portia to let her down gently had only turned out to make everything a right clusterfuck.

These facts did not, Trudy reflected as she fell back against her bed and pulled her pillow over her head with a groan, make it easier to decide what to do. Simpler, yes, but easier?

God, no.

Not easier.

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Trudy Chacon

November 2011

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